


Going to the Mattresses

by disappearingcheshire



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Don't Try This At Home, Established Relationship, Gen, Humor, M/M, i have no excuse for myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 00:35:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4120114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disappearingcheshire/pseuds/disappearingcheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the crimes against style, decency, and health code regulation committed by the run-down safe house, the air mattress was undoubtedly the worst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going to the Mattresses

**Author's Note:**

> based on [this](http://disappearingcheshire.tumblr.com/post/119651046877/otpprompts-imagine-your-otp-having-to-share-an%22)
> 
> (and for Hal, who's laughed about it almost more than I have)

Damian felt the hours in his bones, gathering in his muscles so that by the time he pushed his way into the small safe house, his limbs were heavy and dense. Exhaustion made it a struggle to coordinate, robbing him of his usual grace as he stumbled through the window. Hissing out a curse, the Wayne heir lurched, his foot caught on the sill, and barely managed to save himself from cracking his skull on the floorboards.  
  
Dear god, but he loathed this place.  
  
It was a musty death trap void of any working electricity or structural integrity, with too many exposed spaces. Why the whole building hadn't just been torn down was beyond him.   
  
Unfortunately, it was also obscenely close to Colin's campus, which meant that during exam season, it was the most likely place to find the boy.  
  
(Damian would never admit to checking two other safe houses before arriving - two better-equipped ones with proper ventilation and fuller stocks that were actually on the same side of the city - or to the uncomfortable twinge in his stomach when he realized it had been a week since he had last seen the redhead.)  
  
Straightening, Damian gave a cursory glance to the shabby interior, bare of any furniture beyond a sink tucked in the corner and a mattress pushed towards the center. Even in the thin light, the outline of a figure was visible just beneath the blankets.  
  
At the sight, his shoulders relaxed, his own breath slowing to match the soft rhythm coming from the bed.  
  
He let the moment calm him, smoothing away the ire from his posture, and was reminded again of how taxing the day had been. Board meetings in the morning, training until evening, and a patrol that had ended in an encounter on the docks with unexpected explosions - at this point, even the shabby safe-house was beginning to look appealing.  
  
Damian sighed, stepping deeper into the loft. The air was warm and still, a sanctuary of sleep disrupted only by the gentle shift of Colin's breathing. Among the scattered textbooks and granola wrappers, Colin's trench coat was a familiar heap, shed hastily and left as it lay.   
  
With a scoff, fond despite himself, Damian scooped it up, smoothing out the wrinkles on the sleeves.  
  
There was a drowsy rustle from the bed, followed by a sigh, and for a moment, he wanted nothing more than to crawl under the blankets and find sleep with his face pressed against the back of Colin's neck.  
  
His next inhale quickly derailed that thought, his nose prickling with the rank smell of his evening.  
  
Scowling, Damian ran a gloved hand down his face, lip curling, and glowered between his fingers.  
  
He contemplated just shucking his uniform off to make do, as he could always wash in the morning when he got back to the manor, in a real shower, with hot, perfectly pressured water.  
  
He inhaled again.  
  
With an oath, Damian began undressing, kicking his boots from his feet and dropping his gauntlets and cape on top of Colin's coat. Tugging his tunic off almost violently, and all but throwing his Kevlar and cup into a pile, he stomped towards the sink, careful to remove his mask with less force.  
  
The washcloth on the edge of the basin was already damp, the bar of soap plain and half gone. Damian eyed them both, his mouth thinning, and tried not to think about the heated tiles in his bathroom at home.  
  
Working quickly, he scrubbed away the odor of brine and gasoline, motions harsh yet efficient, and shoved his head under the faucet with gritted teeth. Cursing everything and anything that had to do with redheads, Damian finished, the shock of cold water like nails against his nerves.   
  
Subdued by the towel that was left just within reach, he dried off even faster than he had washed, unwilling to admit that the scent of detergent mixed with Colin's soap was already unwinding his muscles.   
  
By the time he was tugging on a clean pair of briefs, exhaustion had him swaying.   
  
Like a march towards the gallows, Damian approached the bed.  
  
Of all the crimes against style, decency, and health code regulation committed by the run-down safe house, the air mattress was undoubtedly the worst.  
  
The sheet they had thrown on it was thin, the plastic coarse beneath it, and no matter how still they tried to be, he knew the bedding would eventually find its way to the floor, leaving their limbs tacky and uncomfortable. Even worse, despite all advertisement to the contrary, it could  _not_  sustain the weight of an elephant, as, without fail, Damian always ended up on the god damn floor by morning, the mattress deflated beneath him and only a thin layer of cheap vinyl between his cheek and the wood. (This is to speak nothing of the sole, disastrous attempt at sex that had almost blown out his kneecap and broken Colin's nose.)  
  
That his legs hung off the end no matter how much he contorted himself was only icing on the whole absurd cake.  
  
“Comin'?” Colin's voice was rough from sleep, his limbs a warm promise as he shifted onto his side. Arm tucked beneath his head, he reached over tiredly to pat the newly made spot.  
  
“Yeah,” Damian breathed, something in his chest tightening as he watched the other begin to doze again. Smile faint, he allowed the day to fall away, his fatigue rising up to replace it, and dropped down onto the bed.   
  
The sound of his body hitting the ground was nearly deafening, underlined by the startled whistle of air as it rushed from the mattress and a softer thud as Colin bounced off the edge.  
  
Laying there, dazed from nearly braining himself, his nose gushing blood and the bed slowly deflating, it occurred to Damian that his earlier assessment hadn't been entirely correct.  
  
He didn't care  _why_  the building hadn't been torn down yet - all that mattered was that he was going to be the one  _to burn it to the fucking ground_  and that the abomination beneath him was going to go with it.   
  
Then he was going to find whoever decided turning a balloon into a mattress was a good idea and punch them in the face.


End file.
